


we've been moving down that same line

by tremontaine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Multi, OT3, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was four in the morning on an unremarkable Sunday, and Natasha Romanov was - wait for it! - in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've been moving down that same line

**Author's Note:**

> Femsub-y undertones for about three paragraphs and implications that Natasha has been sexually assaulted (dub-con mission sex) in the past.

Breathe, Natasha thought wildly, that's the key, not sure where she'd heard it. Her fingers were tangling unbearably in James' shirt, button-downs, why, they were impossible, it should be illegal. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate, but it just made James moan, and Steve took hold of a strand of her hair and tugged, gently: she tilted her head back to look at him and he kissed her, angle from hell, fierce and deep. Her hands spasmed on James' shirt and clenched. Hands on her hips - the only way she could tell who was touching her where was not at all, excepting only James' left hand - tugging her blouse out of her jeans, the sudden constriction and loosening of her belt being undone, the way the tight denim peeled away from her hips and ass and upper thighs. She closed her eyes and leaned back against Steve's chest, widened her stance in invitation, and then, then, Christwhyhadsheputthisoffforsolong, James said, "Here, like this," in a voice Natasha had not known he possessed and guided Steve's fingers between her legs. 

"God you're so wet," Steve muttered against her jaw, note of wonder in his gone-rough voice, how dare he sound like that, like she was the most precious thing he had ever been given permission to touch. She laughed - she had to, it was laugh or cry - and gasped deliciously when James slid a finger inside her, slow and gentle, she was wet, it felt strange to feel it for some reason, to really pay attention to it. How long had she been this turned on? Their fingers moving in her, over her, slick and easy. Steve's other hand on her ribcage, under her breasts, fingers splayed and tight. Natasha swore at them, mentally, at least, she couldn't get a word out, not over the way her breath was coming short and her mouth had fallen open entirely of its own accord. She twisted down against them, rolled her hips in a luxurious circle, managed at last to say, "Stop teasing." 

"Or else?" James was grinning against the side of her neck, she could feel his mouth stretch. Steve's hand on her chest tightening and relaxing minutely, fingers stroking in time to the tight circles his other hand was making, oh, oh, _oh_.

 James had wrestled his shirt off and dropped it; they were kissing over her shoulder as she shivered, wet, openmouthed kisses, silver fingers sunk into blond hair above her head, the light glinting off both. Natasha couldn't stop looking at them, the angle of Steve's head, the light along the curves of James' arm. She was still mostly dressed. They had probably stretched or ripped her undies out of all recognition. She could stand here, between them, watching them kiss, for the rest of the night quite happily. That was new. Voyeurism wasn't usually this interesting.

Then the kiss ended, and she had a type, apparently, and her type had pretty blue eyes that looked at her like their owner knew her inside out and wanted to play. Christ. Natasha licked her lips, smiling, and dropped her head against Steve's shoulder again, and arched her back, just a bit.

"Don't mind me," she said. It was supposed to have been a seductive purr, but it came out fond and breathless.

"Sweetheart," James murmured, "you're the main event." And he drew his right hand out of her panties and licked his glistening fingers.

Natasha swallowed hard. So did Steve, still cupping her gently. "Is that what passes for dirty talk around here?"

Steve turned his head and laughed against her ear. She could feel him hard against her hip, and she had a pretty good view of James. "Is that what you want?"

Not in the slightest. Natasha started to smile anyway. Then she stopped. Was silent for a second. _Is that what you want_ , no judgment, no expectation, just curious, just asking what she liked and didn't. "I want to suck you off," she said, and knew as soon as she heard the words that they were true. "And - and get James into an actual bed. For longer than an hour. Take our time, I guess. I want to see what you look like when you come and when you lose control. I want..." She shrugged. "There's probably a list."

James kissed her. She stretched up to meet him, sighed and shivered again. Steve kissed her shoulder. His damp fingers trailed down her thigh, tugged her jeans down. Then he pushed her gently against James and knelt, pulling her jeans to her ankles. Natasha stepped out of them in a trance, one hand in James' hair, the fingers of the other caught on that rill of his left arm that she remembered, behind the bicep where she had always used to snag her fingertips. Socks, Steve pulled her socks off. Then his lips brushed her right knee - she flinched, ticklish - the knife scar on her thigh, the skin below the line of her undies. His fingers hooked into the waistband. Natasha wriggled her hips in encouragement, and they were gone.

She must look ridiculous. James' arms were tight across her back, holding her up - up and safe, god, of all the things to make her feel. She pulled back from him to lift her blouse over her head - two sets of hands pulled her bra straps over her shoulders - she unsnapped it, Steve so close behind her again that her hands brushed his chest when she reached back. Shook it off gracelessly and turned to him. They kissed, slowly; she had to take his hands and put them on her tits. Men. Kiss you and undress you and get you off with their fingers on your clit but show them breasts for the first time and they went all to blushing pieces. It was adorable. And thank god! His hands were warm, and gentle, and dextrous. James stroked her hair off the nape of her neck, kissed it from the dip of her skull down to between her shoulder-blades.

"Non-negotiable limits?"

I don't have any, trembled on her lips. Natasha said, "Pain. And weird roleplaying. And don't ever call me a - a whore." Or a cockslut, or -

Steve pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She was too busy unbuttoning his jeans to look at either of them. "Weird roleplaying," he said, a grin in his voice. "Like there's any other kind?"

Natasha couldn't stop herself. "Well, if Captain America ever wanted to come rescue the poor helpless damsel in distress..."

There was a silence that made her look up.

"In costume or out of it?" said James, sounding like he couldn't decide if he was really weirded out or really turned on. Steve was beet-red and struggling epically not to laugh.

"All right," said Natasha. "What did I say?"

Steve lost the fight and doubled up. "Oh my god nothing, I just - seriously -" 

"Blow me," said James. "In costume." He was really turned on. To be fair Natasha was naked right in front of him, but yeah. There was a story here and she would get it out of them. Later. Tomorrow. Next week. They had all the time in the world. 

"What about you?" she asked, because it seemed polite. If she couldn't tell where they drew the line she was doing her job wrong. 

"Pain and blindfolds," said James. "Nothing to worry about." 

Steve shrugged a bit. "The humiliating kind of dirty talk, mostly." Yeah. Five foot nothing asthmatic Steve Rogers would not take kindly to being humiliated when he was naked and having sex with you. Natasha nodded judiciously. Oh hell no, he was wearing god-awful grey cotton briefs. Not even the outline of his cock, the gathering wet spot, could magic away the terrible-ness. Natasha would have to fix that. It was her girlfriend-ly duty to both herself and James. She licked her lips unconsciously, and Steve said, "Natasha," in a voice gone rough as when he'd had his fingers on her cunt. Her limbs were warm and heavy, her face hot, desire coming back in waves. She rocked back, a little, felt James hard behind her, against the small of her back. Then she sank to her knees, toes in the tangle of her discarded jeans and panties. 

Steve said, "Oh god you meant it," dizzy and surprised. 

She grinned. Hell yes she meant it. James was muttering curses. Steve's hands clenched by his hips. Natasha said, "Don't touch," husky and firm. She got to touch though, one hand on his hip, the other wrapping round his cock. There wasn't anything unusual about it, except that it was Steve's. That sounded stupid even to her. He groaned - he shook, a little, and twisted, and by the brush of him at her side she knew James had stepped behind him, both of them looking down at her. She closed her eyes without quite meaning to, feeling more exposed than when they had been getting her off. Of course she'd been dressed then. She hummed a little, felt him shudder - pressed the flat of her tongue to the vein curiously, sucked on the head, Steve's hips twisting again and again, when she glanced up he was flushed from forehead almost to navel and fuck fuck fuck James was holding his hands behind his back so he didn't grab hold of her. Natasha's turn to shudder. 

"There you go," said James. "Another couple minutes. Did I tell you just how often he can come in one night?" he added to Natasha. "No I did not. Because we haven't worked it out yet." 

Holy Mary Mother of God. 

"Scientific experiment needed," James carried on. "You know. Make an agenda, tie him up, take down all the relevant notes..." The emphasis he put on 'all' was indescribable. Was there no word in the English language the man could not make sound like a dirty innuendo? 

"Film the whole thing," Steve said, trembling, sounding wrung out already, "and make millions after you put it on Youtube," and Natasha pulled back so quick she nearly overbalanced onto her ass, whooping with laughter. James was laughing too, a full-throated thing very different to the quiet chuckle he had in public, and he staggered sideways and fell against the end of the bed and Steve dropped to his knees, groaning. 

"Oh my god," said Natasha, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I thought we were having sex, not practicing a stand-up routine." 

"There's not much I wouldn't agree to right about now," said Steve. She shuffled over to him, batted his hands away and pushed him backwards. 

"Lie down and don't -" 

"Touch. Oh god, god, Nat, thank you." He gasped out a laugh, hands flung up beside his head, James was balanced on the end of the bed watching them, still had his pants on, even. "Nat, Jesus, yes." Natasha curled up between Steve's legs, balancing with one arm lying across his abs, and set about the business of making him scream. He didn't - Steve, apparently, was no louder in bed than she was - but the full-body shudder was just as gratifying. He tasted no more pleasant than she had expected, but she had no intention of leaving this room even for long enough to spit and rinse, so she swallowed and wiped her mouth and crawled up his body to kiss his bitten-red mouth. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down on top of him, fine chest hair scratchy against her nipples. Natasha wriggled and murmured and sighed and rocked her hips, savoring the building anticipation, the ache in her belly and between her legs. Oh yes. 

Above them, James said, "You're stunning together." His voice was hushed and soft. 

Steve sighed, a contended thing from the pit of his stomach, tired and happy to his bones. "You're dressed." 

"Feeling kinda left out," said James. 

Natasha giggled. "Sweetheart, you're the main event," she said. Steve's hands smoothed down her back, cupped her hips and buttocks, moved back up. She stretched, luxuriously, arching shamelessly into his hands. He bit his lip. Yeah. Maybe not just this second, but definitely soon. Natasha was looking forwards to - whatever it was that they were going to do. Suddenly she felt nervous. Steve was smiling at her, kept caressing her, his face relaxed with orgasm and utterly besotted. James couldn't take his eyes off either of them, she could feel his gaze on her like a touch, but he was sitting there, still and lazy, one foot swinging a little by their shoulders, waiting and watching. 

She slid off Steve and sat up, head tilted back to look up at James. "We gonna get this show on the road?" 

He smiled. "I'm all yours. You know that." 

She blinked, once. He was and she did. So was Steve. If she was planning on returning them to sender (such as who, Peggy Carter??) she should have done it before she took them for a test drive. Oh hell, they weren't cars, that would have been a lot easier. 

"Nat?" Steve said quietly. 

"Go away I'm having a moment," she said. Then she crawled up into James' lap, straddling his thighs and wrapping her arms over his shoulders. He caught hold of her waist, hands practically spanning the circumference of it. After a second, deliberately, he put his fingers and thumb to the wounds she had carried on her since Odessa. 

"I love you," he said. 

Steve's hands on her hips below James', his mouth against her spine, long line of kisses to her neck. "I love you," he echoed. 

Natasha trembled. James arched up and kissed her. Steve manhandled them both, somehow, into the middle of the bed; James twisted so she slipped sideways onto the mattress. He attacked his pants with a burst of energy in abrupt contrast to his stillness from before. Natasha tried to sit up but Steve slid his thigh between hers, held her down gently - when he kissed her she relaxed into it only halfways, what was wrong with her? She wanted - this was permanent. This was the end of all the roads she had run, hiding from herself. Natasha Romanov didn't get buyer's remorse. There was nowhere left to go and nothing left to do, except be here. James flung his pants away; the belt buckle hit the wooden floor with a noise like the ceiling was coming down. 

Angry at herself, Natasha flinched. She pushed up against Steve, rocked her hips against his thigh. Did the world outside this bedroom even still exist? Two pairs of hands on her; then Steve's mouth at her tits, dry and closemouthed kisses at first, exploring, learning where she was sensitive - anywhere his stubble touched, hell. Then he licked her nipples, right, over and over, drawing circles around it with the tip of his tongue, suckled till she dragged him to the left by his ear. James fit himself against her, slid his left arm under her shoulders, playing with her tits wherever Steve wasn't, kissing her mouth over and over, pulling back as soon as she tried to take it deeper and coming back when she moaned. And then, because apparently they were psychic, Steve raised his head; her nipples were tight and aching, her hips rocking in circles, she was flushed again and shivering, mouth parted for the next kiss, all the muscles in her legs gone tense, eyes half-closed, and they traded her between them like the party favour of the night while their fingers tangled again between her legs, over and over till she couldn't tell even by the angle of the kiss whose mouth was on hers, drugged on them, dizzy. Were Steve's fingers bigger than James', was it him inside her to the knuckle, stroking back out, was James rubbing over her clit in that slow rhythm? 

She was crying. She wasn't crying, but she felt like it. They moved, they drew back, drew her back to the end of the bed, ass hanging off the mattress: "Here," James said, "like this," and one of them was eating her out. Steve. Both his shoulders were warm. Oh god, they wouldn't trade this off, too, it would be awkward, it would be ridiculous. Hands on her hips and thighs, balancing her, holding her open. Steve was careful, gentle, exploratory, long long minutes under his mouth tense and teased, not enough, not nearly enough. James was firmer, sure of what she liked and how, his left hand on her overheated thigh not helping in the least to bring her down, quicker now, pushing her where he wanted her. Steve moved up the bed again to tease her tits. Natasha closed her eyes and clenched her fists above her head and came, shaking all over. 

Someone held her tight against his chest; James. She blinked and shook her head, fingers twitching, breathing quick and shallow. 

"Please, please fuck me now," she rasped. 

She didn't have to do a thing. He rolled her onto her front gently, tilted her hips for him, slid inside. She tore at the bedsheets trying not to talk, to babble nonsense about how much she'd missed him, how badly she needed him, how he belonged here, just here, right here inside her always, how he was hers and Steve was hers and she was theirs and the world could go fuck itself for all she cared, this, just this, the perfect stretch and burn, the slow drag out and sharp push in, his chest heavy, wet with sweat, against her back, pressing over her or moving away, his left hand bright against the dark blue sheets, clenched in effort like her own. Steve's harsh breathing next to them. Soon. She wouldn't come again until she'd had them both. Stupid. She'd be sore tomorrow. She didn't care. It could go on for hours, it had better go on for hours. Steve could have multiple orgasms; well, James had a version of the serum too. She indulged, for a moment, in the fantasy of being traded back and forth between them, being fucked six ways from Sunday, over and over and over until all three of them passed out. Both of them at once? Christ. They were so big, and for all her strength she wasn't, particularly. It would take forever; it would always be the very edge of what she could handle; it would be perfect.

Then reality crashed back in on her: Natasha Romanov being fucked through the mattress by James Buchanan Barnes while the owner of the bed in question - that was, Steve Rogers, aka Captain America - watched, hot-eyed. 

She pushed up on her elbows and knees - heard him groan - met his next thrust with a roll of her hips, hair hanging around her face in sweaty hanks, and couldn't keep back a laugh - more to the point, didn't want to. Then she ran her mouth off after all: "There, sweetheart, there, don't stop, don't ever stop, oh god you feel so good James, missed you so much, ached for you all that time - always knew it would be this good again - keep you with me always - so big in me, come on-" on and on until Steve was cursing quietly and James pulled her up, hand on her arm, back arched like a bowstring, Natasha tossed her hair and laughed and said, "Come for me, sweetheart, Steve hasn't got all night," and a few moments later he did, with a cry that sounded as if he'd been holding it back for years. 

James pitched forwards bonelessly, sprawling facedown in the sheets, breathing hard and fast. Steve, propped against the pillows right beside them, was flushed again and painfully hard, by the looks of it, and Natasha wriggled out from underneath James, flushed herself, movements a little jerky, skin tight and anxious with want, little moan when he slid out of her, and beckoned to him. 

Steve grinned. "Uh oh." 

"Chicken," she said, "come here. I know what you need." It was written all over his face. 

"To come?" 

"To sit here nicely and run your mouth off telling me how beautiful I am while I ride you through the mattress." 

Funny. She'd thought dirty talk was the last thing she wanted. Then again, it was all in the words you picked. Natasha straddled Steve easily, gasped, delighted, as she sank down on him; after that it was all in the hips, and the strength of your thighs. Her breasts bounced uncomfortably till he cupped them in his hands - sometimes she had an impulse to wear a sports bra to have sex in, she really did - and his face was rapt, watching her. He didn't talk but she didn't need him to, not with that look on his face. Her hair stuck to her face and neck, she pressed her hands against his chest for leverage so hard she gave him bruises, and god he was perfect inside her, hot and big and solid, she circled her hips in figure-eights, slowed down and sped up, experimenting a little, testing what she liked with him, what he liked, how to make him cry out or clench his hands or bite his lip and close his eyes, hooded in ecstasy, and those unnatural abs could bring him into a sitting position easily; she dragged him up as their hips snapped together, rolled apart, snapped back, kissed and kissed and kissed him, gasping into his mouth with every drag and slide, and then Steve slipped his hand between them and found her clit and about ten seconds later Natasha was done. A heartbeat after that, so was Steve.

 

+++

 

Natasha had dozed off. Deliciously sore all over, bones turned to water, completely exhausted, she was asleep before anyone could say anything about cleaning up or fetching water, but it couldn't be much later that she woke again. Steve and James were tangled up in each other beside her, making out lazily. She hadn't really given them the chance to get their hands on each other, had she? Selfish. And stupid, because oh they were beautiful.

The next thing she knew - she must have drifted off again - Steve was lifting her out of the bed. 

"What?" 

"Change the sheets," he said. "Thought you might appreciate" - he carried her into the bathroom and Natasha groaned in delight. 

"Oh you saints." She slid out of Steve's arms - staggered a little - climbed into the bathtub without falling over, leaned back against the side and closed her eyes. Roses - where had they found her favourite bubble bath - just the right temperature. 

Laughing, Steve said, "Move up." Natasha inched forwards enough to let him climb in behind her. When he was settled she sank back with a long sigh, head pillowed on his shoulder. That was how she'd started the evening, she thought, grinning to herself.

"What's going on in there?" Steve murmured. 

"Right at the moment, surprisingly little." She snuggled. Shamelessly. Then she stretched her legs out, lifting them out of the water and rolling her ankles. "Or maybe not so surprisingly. Ohhhhh." 

"Sore?" 

"Beautifully," Natasha said. "I'm gonna be feeling you for days." She started to hum, happily, something slow and near-unrecognisable after she was through with it. "Where's James?" 

"Changing the sheets," said Steve, grinning, even as James came in. 

"Your bed, your sheets," he said, and passed Natasha a glass of juice. 

"Saints," she said again. "You coming in?" 

James made a face. "Baths," he said, "make me antsy." 

That made absolutely zero sense to Natasha, but it wasn't her head, and therefore also not her business. She sipped her juice, and kissed James when he bent over the tub to meet her, and much preferred snuggling with Steve to any attempt to actually wash her hair, rank with sweat. Out in the living room, James put a record on - _somewhere, beyond the sea, somewhere, waiting for me, my lover stands on golden sands and watches the ships that go sailin'_ \- old and smooth and sappy. It was four in the morning on an unremarkable Sunday, and Natasha Romanov was - wait for it! - in love.


End file.
